


Hunting Knowledge

by rei_c



Series: Knowledge 'Verse [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Incest, M/M, Politics, Secrets, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-11
Updated: 2008-07-11
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: When one of John's contacts calls about a werewolf sighting in Plaquemines Parish, Dean doesn't have the slightest clue what's coming.





	1. Chapter 1

John says goodbye, tosses the phone on to the bed, and looks at it thoughtfully before turning that same contemplative gaze to Sam. Dean tenses; he gets irrational when his father gives Sam any look more serious than fond exasperation, always thinks that _this_ will be the time his father decides that what Sam represents is too dangerous to be left alive. Sam shifts closer to Dean, calming him with his body heat and the familiar sensation of Danny escaping from every pore. John sees the movement, shifts his gaze from his youngest to his oldest son. Dean thinks he sees hurt in his father's eyes a moment before they shutter over.

"That was one of my contacts down in Louisiana," John says, sitting back in the rickety chair. It creaks but holds. "He's hearing rumours of werewolves."

Dean looks at Sam, sees his brother lean forward, eyes narrowed. "Of werewolves or of _loups-garoux_?"

One corner of John's mouth flicks up and he nods once. "He says werewolves. Says people weren't too concerned about them, though, so I'm thinking maybe he needs to ask more questions or learn how to eavesdrop better. Still, I think you boys should check it out."

_"Your _pè_, he understand more than I be feeling comfortable with,_" Ogou says to Dean. "_Givin' you and my _trezò_ the chance to go back to Orleans, spend a lil' time wit' your own people._"

Dean nudges Ogou to shut the fuck up for once, inwardly wincing when the loa laughs at him. He agrees with Ogou, though; John _does_ know too much, must know or guess, and that's just not something Dean likes to think about. He glances at Sam again, sees that his brother's still frowning, still watching John carefully.

"Where at?" Sam asks.

"Plaquemines," John replies. "Down near Buras. Swamp country," as if Sam doesn't already know everything about Louisiana there is to know, what with the loa and the knowledge of past _poto mitans_ floating around in that freakish head of his. "From what he's heard, it sticks mostly to the wetlands."

Sam looks at Dean, raises an eyebrow. Dean tilts his head, Sam purses his lips, and Dean shrugs. "We'll go," Dean tells his father.

He's just about to add that they'll leave first thing in the morning when Sam pops up and asks, "Is it all right if we get on the road now?"

The look on Dean's face matches, he's pretty sure, the one John's wearing. Dean won't ask why they're in such a hurry and neither does John after a moment's pause. Instead, their father simply says, "Whenever you want. Drive safe."

\--

Fifteen minutes later and they're already a couple miles down the road. Sam's been on the phone the entire time, talking to someone in a French that Dean can't understand. Sam had packed while talking on the phone, said goodbye to their father while talking on the phone, strapped himself in to the passenger side still talking on the phone, words getting faster and faster, more heated. When he finally snaps the phone shut, Dean jumps.

"Sorry," Sam says after Dean's thrown his brother a look. Dean's pretty sure Sam doesn't mean it. "I wanted to find out if it's who I think it is."

"You already know who it is," Dean says, in disbelief. "You already _know_? Dude. If you already know, explain to me why we're driving all the way down there? Why can't we source this out to one of your people?" Sam shifts, gets a certain cast to his jaw that Dean recognises and hates. "The fuck, Sam, come on. Just _tell_ me."

Sam looks out of the side window just long enough to have Dean start counting down from fifty. "Outsourcing is one thing but we really should stop and check in with everyone in New Orleans. You need to see how your group's doing and I have no doubt the _badjikan_ has a whole list of things I need to take care of in person. Not to mention," he adds, now looking at Dean, "proper coffee."

Dean thinks of beignets dunked in café au lait, the combination of powdered sugar and chicory, and glares in Sam's general direction. "Who were you talking to?" he asks, changing the subject away from food and back to business. Judging by the look in Sam's eyes, Sam knows exactly what Dean's doing.

Still, Sam goes with it, actually answers. "_Maman_ Lissa. I know Dad said Plaquemines but if anything's happening outside of the city, anywhere in the central or southern parishes, she usually knows something about it." Dean asks if she's said anything useful and Sam replies, "Not too much, though she did say it was a _loup-garou_ and not a werewolf."

"Does that mean it probably is who you think it is?" Dean asks. "Or did she say for sure that's who it is?"

"She doesn't know for sure," Sam answers. "All she can tell is that some _loup-garou_ is messing up her hoodoo and we'd better get our asses down there and fix it fast." Dean raises an eyebrow, looks over at his brother and nearly busts out laughing, seeing the expression on Sam's face. He might grow to tolerate Lissa if she can keep Sam in line.

It takes an hour and Sam falling asleep before Dean realises that his brother never said just _who_ he thinks this is or why they had to get on the road so fast. He looks over at Sam, considers waking Sam up, but lets his brother sleep.

"_You have any clue what's going on?_" he asks Ogou.

The loa's quiet, too quiet for Dean's tastes. "_Might do,_" Ogou finally says. "_Might be wrong. Best to wait and see._"

Put that way, Dean's not sure this trip is such a good idea anymore.

\--

They stop for the night outside of Flagstaff, spend six hours sleeping, then get up and drive to Abilene before crashing for twelve hours. Dean wakes up in the middle of the night to find himself wrapped around his brother, his hand on the tattoo on Sam's hip, Sam's palm pressed over Dean's sternum. He goes back to sleep, holding tighter.

He dreams of fire, finds himself caught back in the same place he's met Ogou before, a barren wasteland with an insistent backdrop of barely-there drumming. The loa's looking at him, machete in one hand, bottle of rum in the other.

"You be careful," Ogou tells him. The loa unwinds a strip of red fabric from his wrist, passes it to Dean. "You be learning something on this trip. Damballah say you gotta be ready, _cheval_."

Dean looks down at the fabric in his hands, rubs his thumb along the strands of red. Red fills his vision and he can hear hissing in the background, blending with the drums. He feels like he should be able to understand the hisses, like the sinuous curves and waves are their own language, but no matter how hard he tries, how close he listens, he can't make sense of it.

He looks up. Ogou is gone.

\--

When the sun's insistently shining through the blinds, too bright to ignore any longer, they unwind from each other and get ready to drive east. Dean insists on a big breakfast, Sam doesn't protest too much, and they pull in front of Lissa's house just as the sun's going down.

Dean's not exactly ecstatic about being here, not with the way he left Lissa last time. He told Sam as much on the drive down, exactly what happened, but Sam had just shaken his head and smiled.

"I know you told me not to worry," Dean mutters, now that he's parking the Impala, turning her off. "But the woman has it out for me." Still, as Sam gets out of the Impala and makes his way up the path to Lissa's front porch, Dean follows. He's anticipating getting stopped on the steps again; to his surprise, he makes it all the way to the door, right with Sam. Dean looks down at the porch, looks at the steps, sees the five-spots and figures the snake-lines are still there. "The hell?" he mutters.

The door opens before Sam can answer. Lissa stands there, hands on her hips, though she throws them in the air when she lays eyes on Dean. She goes crazy with the French and Dean turns bewildered eyes on Sam. His brother just stands there and takes whatever Lissa's throwing at him.

"And you," she says, switching to English as she switches her attention to Dean. "Who's decided you're good enough, hmm? Who thought a killer of their _chevaux_ was worthy to ride?"

"_Can't say I like her tone much,_" Ogou mutters, coiling restlessly in Dean's head.

"_Do you not like her tone or are you feeling guilty?_" Dean snipes back, more and more uncomfortable with each passing second that Lissa's glaring at him and Sam isn't saying anything. He stares at Lissa, one eyebrow raised, and finally says, "Ogou."

Lissa's glare drops and she gapes at Dean before turning a horrified look on Sam. "He's the one? _Him_? After all this time your people spent waiting, it turns out to be _him_?"

"Hey," Dean says, though he's cut off before he can say anything else.

Sam places a hand on Dean's arm and Dean feels the buzz of black magic Petro under Sam's skin. Sam must not be too sure of their welcome, not if he's calling up Karrefour and Ti-Jean, and that makes Dean tense. Sam's never said one word against Lissa; to be unsure _now_, it doesn't seem right. The loa have to be there for some other reason. That's almost worse.

"It's him, _maman_. Is that going to be a problem?" Sam asks, eyebrow raised. "If it is, we'll leave."

Lissa looks at Sam, holds his gaze, then lets her eyes flicker to Dean.

"I never thought you'd be one to accept fucking your brother, child," Lissa says. "Even with them damned riders o' yours." Though she's looking at Dean, he knows she's talking to Sam. Ogou growls, mutters a few things about what Sam will accept, but Dean's more concerned about the way Sam's standing there, waiting, with Karrefour in the arch of his cheekbone.

Sam tilts his head to one side and says, "I never thought you'd pick that, out of everything, to bitch about. If it's a problem, Lissa, we'll go. But you have to tell me now."

Even Dean understands the implicit warning in Sam's statement: if they leave now, they'll never come back. It makes Dean unwind to know that no one, even someone Sam thinks of as a parental figure, is more important than him, that Sam will throw over everyone in favour of him. Still, Lissa means something to Sam and Dean hates to think that he's come between them.

Sam isn't moving, waiting for a response, and Dean's wishing his gun was with him, not in the car. Lissa looks them both over but eventually just sighs and lifts her eyes to heaven. "_On est foutu_. Fine. Come in."

Dean blinks at the sudden switch in languages. Lissa turns her back on them and stalks towards her kitchen; Dean leans over to Sam and murmurs, "I need to learn French, don't I. Dammit."

"_Maman_'s a good teacher," Sam says, and in the time it takes Dean to figure out he should be smacking his brother, Sam's given him a wide, cheeky grin, and followed Lissa inside.

Dean rolls his eyes and gives the street a last, careful look before walking into the house and closing the door behind him.

\--

Lissa's just thumping down a pitcher of sweet tea and two glasses down on the table by the time Dean gets to the kitchen. She scowls at Dean as he sits down, ruffles her hand through Sam's hair, and reaches into a different cabinet, pulling out a bottle of dark rum. With a mocking salute in Dean's direction, she takes the cap off and chugs for a handful of seconds, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand when she's done.

"That good, huh," Dean says, thinking that this is great, just great. Sam might already know who it is even if he hasn't told Dean and the biggest damn hoodoo witch that Dean's ever met is drinking at the mere sight of them heading south. Just once, Dean would like for things to go smoothly.

Lissa gives Dean an unimpressed look and turns her back, fiddling with the cookie jar, pulling a plate down from one cabinet. "Plaquemines cursed," Lissa says, almost off-hand. She's not facing them so Dean almost just nods and lets it go but then he realises what she's said.

"Cursed?" he repeats, looking at her back. When she doesn't say anything, he turns to Sam, eyebrow raised, Ogou strangely quiet. "Sam. Cursed? By who? How?"

Lissa snorts and thumps the plate down on the counter. "_Poto mitan_ ain't telling you anything, huh," she notes. She turns then, looks at Sam, and starts in with the French again.

Dean leans back and sips his tea, resisting the urge to rub his forehead. He's definitely getting a headache.

She goes on for a while, until Sam slams his hand down on the table and growls, "_Get maman ou_, Lissa. _Pawol anpil pa leve le mo_."

"Might not," Lissa mutters, "but moping 'bout the country might do if the right one's moping."

Dean frowns, tries to figure out what the hell they're going on about. He pokes Ogou and the loa shifts, uneasy.

_"I ain't speaking French_," Ogou says, "_but what your brother said after she had her piece, that I know_."

"_So tell me_," Dean says. He doesn't get why Ogou's hesitating until the loa translates and Dean starts putting things together. He's pretty sure Sam swore at Lissa -- tone like that, he wasn't asking nicely for a sandwich -- but then, what, just reciting a platitude ended the argument?

The loa swirls, says, reluctantly, "_Ain't a platitude. _Pawol anpil pa leve le mo_: a lot of talk won't raise the dead. Plaquemines cursed and your brother be racing down there, thinking that it be safe to talk 'bout the dead, that talking ain't gonna raise 'em. That hoodoo woman o' his say moping might, if he be the right one._"

That, together with Sam's reticence, with the way Sam curled up in Dean's arms last night, clung to Dean in his sleep, what Ogou said in Dean's dream, has Dean worried.

"Marinette," Dean says, feeling pieces of the puzzle fall together even though he can't see the full picture yet. "What the hell does this have to do with Marinette?"

Sam looks at him, eyes dark and shattering with loa. Dean holds Sam's gaze, not challenging, not with Karrefour and Danny resting side-by-side, but not backing down.

"If he the one," Lissa says, softly, "you should tell him, Sam."

Dean doesn't plead, doesn't move, doesn't blink or snarl, doesn't _anything_. Sam finally looks away, biting his lower lip. "Where in Plaquemines, Lissa? And no, we aren't going there tonight."

Lissa looks at them both, sighs and takes two small red flannel bags out of the farthest drawer. She presses one into Sam's hands, kisses his cheeks, and says, just loud enough for Dean to hear, "You be careful, honey-child. And keep that boy close, y'hear? If you end up down south of Live Oak, I wanna know you got all the back-up you need."

Sam ducks his head and nods. "We'll start in the wetlands south of Davant; we heard there were some sightings down near Buras. We'll start with the _memeres_ and if we have to sleep anywhere, we'll stay in Pointe à la Hache. Dean's armed, we're both ridden, we'll be fine. Promise."

"Y'better," she says, before stepping on her tip-toes and leaning forward to cup Sam's cheeks in her palms and press a kiss on Sam's forehead.

Dean aches to see it, that casual and yet entirely heartfelt gesture. When he first met Lissa, when he first heard Sam call her _maman_, he was angry at this woman for invading Sam's life, for stealing their mother's place. He's come to realise, mostly due to their distance from Louisiana, from Sam's mentions of her every great once in a while, that he should really be thankful _someone_ was willing to step up and fill that void in Sam's life. He'll never like Lissa -- then again, he doesn't have to.

She turns to him, then, and gives him a wry smile as she pushes the other bag against Dean's chest. He takes it from her, hands sliding against her warm, dry skin. The bag rattles and jingles as Dean looks down at it, thumb wiping across the red flannel. His father's preached against mojo bags since Dean can remember, has never trusted hoodoo and, in fact, has hunted the practitioners more than once.

Dean tightens his hold on the mojo bag, squeezing it before he puts it in his pocket, looks Lissa right in the eyes, and says, "Thank you." It really does mean a lot; Sam gets a new one every time he comes and Dean has the feeling it's more a gift of love than anything else. For Lissa to make one for him means she's accepted him, even if only the slightest bit.

Sam elbows him, lightly, and grins, head angled toward the front door in question. Dean rolls his eyes but nods, and Lissa pushes a ziploc full of cookies and a thermos of sweet tea at them when they leave.

\--

"Do I even wanna know what's in these?" Dean asks, once they're back on the road and heading southeast. The mojo bag sits heavy in his jeans pocket.

"Nothing bad," Sam's quick to reassure him. "Two nails from horseshoes buried at the centre of a crossroads during the two weeks surrounding a full moon, some finger bones from animals killed near Spanish Lake, angelica, a pinch of five-finger grass, salt, shavings from a penny, with Lissa's special Condition oil on the bag. Sometimes she adds extras based on whatever the sticks told her but that's the basis."

Dean nods. He has no clue what half of that means; Sam's telling the truth about it not being anything wrong so Dean'll accept it. "So. Where am I going and what should I know?"

Sam looks at him, takes his time thinking about an answer. Dean's about to remind his brother of Lissa's words, of what happened in Mississippi a lifetime ago, but Sam clears his throat and looks back out the front window. Dean can see Sam's fingers dig into his thighs, inwardly sighs; Marinette or not, he already knows he isn't going to like this.

"We'll spend the night in New Orleans," Sam says. "Check in with the _badjikan_, get some beignets for breakfast. If we have enough time tonight, we could maybe see if Kate and Rose are around. It won't take two hours to get down to Buras in the morning and I'd prefer driving it in the sunlight."

Dean taps the steering wheel along with the music, Bon Jovi turned way down low, and thinks. "Correct me 'f I'm wrong, dude, but Buras is further south than both Davant and Pointe à la Hache. Why aren't we starting north and heading south if we need to?" He pauses, waits for the break between songs and, once the next song starts, asks, "And why did you mention Davant? And Lissa said something about Live Oak, didn't she? Those are ridiculously tiny places to use as markers."

"Tiny but memorable," Sam mutters. Dean looks over, sees Sam tighten his grip. His knuckles are white.

"Memorable how?" Dean asks. "Live Oak's quick to drive through and Davant kind of bleeds into Pointe à la Hache, but there's nothing wrong with them.I went through them both when I was, y'know, and they were fine. "

Wincing at the reminder of why he had cause to be in Davant before, Dean hopes his brother doesn't avoid the question. Dean's starting to think that the topic of the _loup-garou_, that's going to be one of those things they talk about outside of the car, maybe even in the courtyard of Sam's home on Dauphine, somewhere solid and stable and surrounded by the loa. He'll be content to wait for now; Dean's starting to learn when to let things drop and when he really shouldn't. If Sam hasn't said anything about it by breakfast, Dean'll push the issue then.

"You won't be this time. Davant," Sam says, then stops. Dean glances over, reassures himself that Sam's merely thinking about how to explain, isn't going to change the subject. "Davant's complicated. Most of Plaquemines is. That close to New Orleans but so different, all the wetlands and the superstitions, caught between river and Gulf on almost every side. For many of the original vodouisantes who brought our beliefs to this country, Plaquemines was the first glimpse they had of America. It shaped things, their view of the new land, their dreams, their fears."

Sam sounds almost reverent. Dean's not too sure he likes that, not when Ogou's stirring uneasily in the back of his mind, when his own hackles are raised. "Which means what, Sam."

The sky above them turns black as the last vestiges of sunlight disappear. Dean might find it creepy if he hadn't seen it a million times before and if the lights of metro New Orleans weren't sending up a beacon flare to the stars visible from half an hour away.

"We like to think that New Orleans is the centre of our power, we even believe it. It's mostly true," Sam says, slowly, still with that tinge of reverence. "But the oldest, purest forms of Haitian vodou, all of the old prayers and songs and powers, they've somehow stuck claws into the bayou and resisted evolution. It's dangerous to ignore what people down there hold close."

Dean really doesn't like the sound of that. "Dangerous _how_?"

Sam looks over, finally meeting Dean's eyes. There's a wry acknowledgment lurking in them that Dean's not entirely comfortable with. "Dangerous enough that, even with Ogou and Mathieu's _konesan_, I'm not exactly keen on letting you go much further south than Belle Chasse."

It takes Dean a second to realise that the _houngon_ whose knowledge he received, the _esprit_ Sam unleashed on him, was this Mathieu. It's the first time Sam's ever named him. Dean thinks about asking but doesn't. Instead, he tilts his head, says, "Oh, but you're okay with _you_ heading out to be lunch for the 'gators?"

"Something like that," Sam says, ducking his head. "Plaquemines doesn't scare me the way it does other people." He's hiding the grin but Dean still catches it, lets the sight of it unwrap a vice from his shoulders.

"You're not thinking about telling me I can't go," Dean states, once the outer edges of Kenner start creeping up on them.

Sam doesn't say anything for five miles. His grin has slipped into solemnity. "No," he finally says. "No, I'm not."

Strangely enough? That doesn't make Dean feel one bit better.

\--

They leave the car in the same lot as before, take the same route to Dauphine, and yet it feels like this is the first time Dean's ever been here before, the first and, strangely enough, the millionth. He's not sure why, maybe something to do with Ogou snoring in the base of his skull, maybe because he's exchanged glances with the guy looking at the lot out of a second-floor window, narrowed his eyes at the tourists, nodded at certain people watching him and Sam.

He even stops next to the front door of the house without reminder, leaning on the wall and glancing up and down Dauphine like he belongs here.

Sam knocks once on the door before stepping away from it, back straight and shoulders tense.

"Don't you have a key?" Dean asks. "Or, wait. You know, I don't think I ever saw anyone _lock_ the door last time."

"That's because we don't have a lock on it," Sam replies, eyes fixed on the door like he's suddenly Superman and can see through it.

Dean waits but has to sigh when Sam doesn't add anything else. "You're honestly going to make me ask, aren't you. Fine. Why are we knocking when we could walk right in? Especially when this is, technically, your house?"

Sam gives Dean an absent look; Dean can see the loa swirling in Sam's eyes and doesn't know why Sam looks so serious. Sam was like this the last time they came as well, still and silent, loa breaking apart and reforming almost too fast for Dean to catch. If this is home, Dean really doesn't understand why Sam's always so wary about returning.

The door swings open and the _badjikan_ stands there and stares at Sam before his eyes flick to Dean, then back to Sam. "Aw, chile," the _badjikan_ says, leaning on the door and rolling his eyes. "I don't even get a call this time? What you doing here?"

Sam grins but Dean can see that his eyes aren't reflecting the expression. "Dean and I need some time, then we'll catch up with any messages. We'll be leaving in the morning. We just need a bed for the night."

The _badjikan_ rakes his gaze up Sam and down Dean, finally steps back from the door, clearing the way inside for the Winchesters. "A bed," he says, flatly. "Seems I 'member y'all not needing much but each other."

"We'd _like_ a bed, then," Sam replies, not missing a beat, pushing past the _badjikan_ to step inside. Dean's right on Sam's heels, nodding at the _badjikan_, who smiles back. "Is anyone else here?"

"Rada _konfians kay_ of Portland just left this mornin', so no," the _badjikan_ replies, closing the door, turning to follow them. Sam almost misses a step at the _badjikan_'s words, shakes his head and makes for the kitchen and the small courtyard with focus approaching tunnel-vision. Dean takes in the house as they pass through it, noting a few small changes: a painting moved, a new rug thrown in the hallway, a different pot of flowers on the small table holding a telephone and a fresh notepad, handful of pens. "Should I be 'xpecting anyone else?"

Sam pauses at that, tilts his head. "No," he says. "Not to my knowledge." He turns and Dean swallows, seeing Karrefour in the way Sam's gaze is fixed on the _badjikan_, Karrefour and some hint of a loa he doesn't think he's met before, vicious like a Petro but more animal, more horrifying.

Karrefour's cruel and Danny's hard but they're just like people in that: they have personalities, they're more than the sum of their traits. Dean's sniped with Ogou, tussled with Danny, had incredibly hot and dangerous sex with Karrefour. Looking at the edges of this loa, though, Dean's tempted to take a step back. It doesn't feel like this loa possesses anything more than pure rage.

"_Ne'er thought I'd see that,_" Ogou murmurs. He sounds awed in a vaguely terrified way.

"_What?_" Dean asks, prodding when Ogou doesn't say anything more. He understands the terror but not the awe, wonders what the hell Ogou sees that he doesn't and can't. "_Dude, what_?"

The _badjikan_'s face is white when Dean tears his eyes away from Sam. Dean's starting to get worried so he goes to move towards Sam, reach out. Ogou stops him, though, takes control of Dean's body and stands there, watching, just as still and silent as Sam had been outside.

Dean snarls, fights Ogou's hold and eventually breaks free. "_Dude. What the hell?_" He doesn't wait for an answer, though, not before reaching out to Sam, touching his brother's arm, feeling the burn of loa in his fingertips.

"Sam?" he asks, gently, like he's trying to help a civilian come down from a supernatural encounter. He has no clue what's going on here, the undercurrents floating between Sam and the _badjikan_, between Sam and Ogou, what it means or even where it came from. He doesn't think he's supposed to know and is just being dense; even the knowledge he inherited from Mathieu's _esprit_ isn't helping. "What's wrong?"

Sam shudders, goosebumps forming on the skin under Dean's fingertips. "Nothing," Sam says. He shakes his head, just once, and drops his eyes to the floor. Sam takes a deep breath. "Nothing. Sorry."

"Dude, you can't just," Dean starts to say, but the _badjikan_'s already backed away, left and gone somewhere else, and Ogou's curling silently in Dean's head. The loa's emotions are bouncing all over the place but Dean gets that Ogou's not going to question the _poto mitan_, is perfectly willing to accept what just happened and move on once he's gained his equilibrium. "Sam?"

It takes a moment before Sam looks at Dean, shutters in the back of his eyes. These aren't the shutters Dean's seen so many times, Sam retreating, hiding; Dean thinks these are more Sam pushing something back, keeping it, as much as possible, from leaking out, barrier on top of barrier on top of barrier. "Come on," he says. "The courtyard. I need to." He stops, takes a deep breath. "I'll explain. I swear I'll explain." 

Sam takes off for the courtyard too fast for Dean to say anything else, to do anything but stand there and take a deep breath, eyes focused on the ceiling. "Great," he mutters. "Just fucking great."

\--

When he makes it to the courtyard, picking up a couple beers from the fridge on his way, Sam's kneeling in front of the statue for Erzulie. His forehead is resting at the base of the statue, back curved, neck bent, small as he can curl his body. Dean thinks back, is relieved beyond words that Sam's not kneeling at Marinette's statue again. He sits down on the ground, crosses his legs, and pops open one beer. With a nod at Ogou's statue, glowing slightly, Dean takes a long pull and closes his eyes.

"_Y'never bring me anything,_" Ogou mutters, sounds like a petulant child. "_You brought Cimetière rum, cards, but your own rider? Nothing._"

Dean snorts, snipes back, "_I let you fuck Danny on a regular basis. That isn't good enough?_" 

Ogou takes a moment to think that over, finally grumps, "_Guess it's a'right._"

"_If you tell her it's just all right,_" Dean starts to say.

Ogou mutters, cutting him off, and Dean's about to keep going but he hears movement and opens his eyes, turning to see Sam unfold himself. Sam kisses one fingertip, presses it to the top of Erzulie's figurine, traces down the line of her body. He turns around, then, gives Dean a half-smile, and says, "Hope one of those is for me."

"Get your ass over here quick enough," Dean says, even as he's popping open the other bottle, holding it out to Sam.

Sam moves over, sits down across from Dean, knees touching, and takes the beer. "Thanks." Sam doesn't take a drink, just holds the bottle, lets the condensation slide down over his fingers and drop onto the ground.

Dean waits a few minutes but he's never been the most patient guy, definitely hasn't gotten any better about that with Ogou riding him all the time. "So," he says. "What the hell was that and what the fuck are we doing here when there's a _loup-garou_ floating around Plaquemines? I want some answers, Sam."

"I know," Sam says. He smiles, wry and thoughtful, picks at the label on his bottle. "Okay, yeah."

It seems like Sam has no idea where to start. Dean's seen this look from his brother far too many times before. Usually he waits, or asks one question to start things off, but this time he shifts, leans forward, presses his lips to Sam's and lets one hand tangle in the hair at the nape of Sam's neck, the other pressed against the ground for balance. Sam tastes like the remnants of Lissa's sweet tea and peanut butter cookies, like dark rum and bitter chocolate, but beneath that Dean's finding hints of that other loa, the tang of blood and hatred and despair and death. It's not Marinette -- she's bound and locked up, it _can't_ be her -- but it's close enough to what Dean's heard of her to have him seriously worried.

"_Ayizan_," Ogou murmurs, swirling closer to the front of Dean's mind, tasting with Dean, searching out every trace of that foreign loa. "_Oh, _poto mitan."

"Who is that?" Dean asks, lips close enough to Sam's so that they brush with every movement, air shared between the two of them. Sam pushes at him and Dean sits down, one hand resting possessively on Sam's knee. "Sam?"

Sam bites his lower lip and peels more of the label off of the beer bottle. "Erzulie has many faces, many names," he says. Dean nods. He suddenly has a bad feeling about this. Sam kneeling at her statue, Ogou impressed, the _badjikan_ drawn and pale, none of it sounds good. "Freda for the Rada, Dantor for the Petro. But there are more. People tend to think that some of them fit together, that they refer to the same person, but there are differences between 'Zulie Freda and Erzulie Freda Dahomey, for example. Danny's Danny, no one else, not Le Flambeau, not la Mapienne; she's close but there are differences. But there's a third face, someone else."

"And she's riding you?" Dean asks. He wants to be clear on this. "Who is she?"

"Erzulie Ge-Rouge." Sam shifts, looks down. "Erzulie Red-Eyes. And no, she's not riding me."

Dean stops at that, freezes with his beer raised halfway to his lips. "If she's not riding you," he says, slowly, carefully, "then why is she, y'know."

Just as carefully, Sam looks up, looks at Dean. Something is hiding in the back of his eyes; Dean wants to think it's a loa, is almost convinced it's madness. Lakwa warned him about madness once; Dean shivers in the heat, thinks of the promise he made the Baron. "Do you remember what Danny said, upstairs, when we marked each other, before we met Dennis? She said you were calling out to Ogou, pushing against the block from your end."

Casting his mind back takes some effort, caught as that moment was between some fantastic sex and meeting Rose and Dennis for the first time. Still, Dean pulls it up, then gives his brother a narrow-eyed look. "What does it mean, exactly, when the _poto mitan_ is calling out to a loa, especially when that loa isn't one of the trinity?"

"Nothing good," Sam says, blunt as he ever gets. "Erzulie Ge-Rouge is Erzulie's face of vengeance." He stops there, looks as if he's thinking for a moment, then adds, "And despair. It's never a good thing when she comes to visit."

Dean's been blindsided by this one, he'll be the first to admit it. He opens his mouth, presses his lips closed, opens again to sip at his beer. "Should I ask what has you calling out to her? Because you don't need a ritual to open the gates for the loa; you're the _poto mitan_ and you have Karrefour as part of your trinity, not to mention Ati's marks all over you. She'll come?"

"Yeah," and this time Sam's smile isn't wry so much as dry, hard and completely unamused. "She'll come." 

Someone driving in the Quarter lays on the horn, someone else's brakes screech, and Dean jumps at the interruption. Even so, that's not enough to take Dean's attention off of this conversation. There's only one person that's ever managed to get Sam acting like this -- loa, not person. "So how does this relate to Marinette? You never answered me at Lissa's but she knew. And I'd like to think that, apart from Marinette, there's no reason for you to be calling down this version of 'Zulie. Unless there's something you haven't been telling me," he adds, trying for a little humour.

It doesn't work.

"There's a man," Sam starts to say, "a _houngon_, one of Marinette's. He wasn't happy when I exiled her, was even less happy after the binding." Sam stops there; Dean doesn't say anything. "Marinette's the loa of werewolves," Sam finally says.

Dean's pretty sure that's an unrelated statement but when it comes to their line of work and the bitch-loa, he's not going to take any chances. He glances over at Marinette's statue, the skeleton representing her and the wolf standing at her side, then back at Sam. "This _houngon_, he a werewolf?"

Sam's smile isn't pretty. "No. He's a _loup-garou_."

Ah. They've come full circle and suddenly everything makes sense. The _loup-garou_ is a _houngon_ of Marinette's which explains why Sam's so emotional about this. He wonders how Sam knows this man, if they've ever been ridden together, how the _houngon_ expressed his displeasure at Marinette's binding and when. Dean can't pinpoint a time when Sam might have gotten a call unless it was during his month-long run before they met up in Savannah. Sam hasn't seemed any more despondent than normal lately but he must be hiding things pretty damn well if Dean and Ogou haven't picked up on even a trace.

"Why are we here?" Dean asks, thumb stroking across Sam's jean-clad knee. The smile Sam gives him is tight, hints of grimace behind it, so Dean moves, pulls Sam with him, and the two end up leaning back against the door, legs pressed tight together, Dean's arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam isn't protesting, is actually leaning into Dean. As much as Dean likes it, he finds it slightly worrying. "Why'd you bring me here and not down to Buras right away?"

"Because you don't know anything about Plaquemines and I'm willing to bet you don't know anything about _loup-garou_," Sam replies. Their father would probably bristle at the words but Dean understands the tone and gets that Sam's being honest, doesn't mean anything except that there are things about both that Dean doesn't understand. In the grand scheme of vodou, even with a former _konfians kay_'s _konesan_, it's true. Dean might have a _konfians kay_'s knowledge of the Petro but Mathieu lived in New Orleans all his life and rarely ventured out of the Quarter; Ge-Rouge isn't Petro, Plaquemines isn't New Orleans, and Mathieu never met a _loup-garou_.

Dean presses his lips to Sam's head, stays like that for a moment. "So tell me. _Loups-garoux_, werewolves. I thought they were pretty interchangeable terms. I'm guessing they're not?"

"Maybe in the wider world of hunters, but not in our world." Sam reaches up, scratches at his cheekbone. Dean sits up but pulls Sam tighter; the touch reassures him even as Sam relaxes slightly. "In our world, a werewolf is a person that has a virus and no control over their shifting; they change the three days of the full moon and no other, and they can't stop it from happening."

Oh, Dean doesn't like where this is going. "But, lemme guess. _Loups-garoux_ can control their shifts."

"It's a blessing," Sam says. "A gift. Most, if not all, _loups-garoux_ are gentle, protective, kind. If this is the _loup-garou_ I believe it is, then he'll have shed his human skin almost immediately after Marinette was bound and hasn't returned. He'll stick to the wetlands, come out at night to forage, try to avoid humans as much as possible. Most of the land between Buras and Davant is caught between the Mississippi and the bayous bordering the Gulf. It's a good place to hide."

Dean takes that in, thinks about how much of a bitch it's going to be to try and track a four-legged creature through wetlands and bayou, and decides he doesn't care much for their chances. He and John have done a few jobs in the Florida Everglades and it's never fun, the ground too soggy for good tracking, the air too humid for good hunting during the day, too many creatures out for safe hunting at night. "And Plaquemines?" he finally asks.

Sam hums, says, "What I said before, the beliefs. It's not necessarily a _bad_ thing, Dean. I've spent time in Plaquemines; the people take some getting used to but they're willing to share what they know so long as a person's willing to listen. The atmosphere," he goes on, slower, "that takes some getting used to. Power practically floats in the air and they've struck some deals with hoodoo practitioners to weave protection against wanderers and outsiders. The amount of skill, of knowledge." He shakes his head. "If we ever lost that, if it ever disappeared, I hate to think what would happen to our power bases in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Biloxi."

"So why did Lissa sound so afraid?" Dean asks. Either Sam's stalling or Dean's at a loss for why he should be so worried. Granted, he's heard things about the southern parishes, remembers the flash of Théo's teeth, talking about Belle Chasse, but there has to be more that Sam isn't telling him. History, fine, hoodoo, okay, but Lissa wouldn't have been cowed by either of those and neither would Sam.

"There's a legend," Sam says. He finally takes a sip of his beer, wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand the way Lissa did. "Down in lower Plaquemines, back about two hundred years ago, a priest was accused of rape and murder. The people in his parish, in southern Plaquemines Parish itself, threw a rope around a tree and strung him up, real vigilante trial. Ever since, the _memeres_, the grandmothers -- a term of respect, not necessarily age," Sam points out, more of an aside than anything else, "have called the place cursed. Something about breaking a commandment with a priest, I guess. Even the loa are leery about having their horses down there. Most that get called move, up at least to Live Oak."

Dean's had enough experience with curses to know that, if they're true, they change a place. If this is true, and it probably is, having held on this long, or has at least become true by the power of so many believing it, then he's glad they're spending the night here and not in Buras. "It happened in Davant?" he asks, guessing that's why Sam mentioned it specifically.

Sam doesn't answer for a long moment. "No," he finally says. "Southern Plaquemines as a whole is cursed to destruction. Davant, though. There are spirits in Davant. Lots of them. It's." Sam stops, takes a deep breath. "It's unsettling."

If Sam, Sam who grew up with ghosts and demons and poltergeists, who's seen so much as the _poto mitan_, who's killed and sacrificed and given himself over to a trio of Petro loa, is unsettled, then Dean is as well, just thinking about. "Guess we can't just lay some salt over the town, call it good?" he asks, trying to lighten the conversation and failing miserably. "Maybe do some kind of mass sending-off ritual?"

"No," Sam says, again. "It's been tried. Priests, _houngon_s, hoodoo witches, demonologists, even some reiki healers. The spirits in Davant are staying until they decide to leave."

"Huh." Dean takes a sip of his beer, finds the bottle close to empty and drains the rest down. "Stubborn bitches. You hungry? I could really go for some food. And standing up; my ass's gone numb."

Sam moves, grins, even if the smile is shadowed by the time it reaches his eyes. As they walk out of the courtyard, Dean following his brother, Sam turns, rests his eyes on Marinette's statue, then Erzulie's, right next to each other.

Even in the heat, Dean gets chills.

\--

The _badjikan_'s nowhere to be found when they start looking for him; Sam purses his lips but tells Dean it's all right, that it's a free country and if Dean's so hungry they should forget about the _badjikan_ and get some dinner. Dean suggests Coop's, eager to see what it's like without Dennis bringing down the atmosphere, so the two leave and catch the the streetcar at Canal and Rampart, ride it down the riverfront and hop out before French Market.

A weeknight and still Coop's is busy. Sam manages to find a small table squeezed in the back corner and the waitstaff greet Sam like he hasn't been gone for months. They have smiles to spare for Dean, as well, and Dean sits down with a grin that widens when a waitress sets down two beers and an appetiser plate: fried crawfish, oysters, shrimp, and crab claws.

"Been a while, Sam," she says, mild, before ruffling her hand through Sam's hair. "And thanks for not making a meetin' of it." She turns to Dean, adds, "Coop's ain't no place for business, y'hear? Now, what're y'all in the mood for?"

Sam picks up a crab claw, uses his knife to crack it open and starts picking at the meat, gesturing for Dean to order. Dean scans the menu and decides that he'd better develop a taste for seafood if he's going to spend more time in the south. "Red beans and rice," he finally says, "with the sausage. Please."

The waitress flashes him a smile, nods and looks at Sam. "Taste plate like normal?"

"Please," Sam says, grinning up at her. His lips are stained with crab juice. "And there's no rush, Jack."

"Eat up," she advises them, nodding at the plate of seafood. "I'll keep the beers coming, yeah?"

Dean smiles up at her and says, "I'd kiss you if it wouldn't make him jealous." She laughs, waves as she weaves back into the crowd around the bar. Dean looks at Sam, doesn't know what he's expecting but can't help the surprise at seeing a warm, silly smile on Sam's face. "What?" he asks, suddenly defensive.

"Nothing," Sam says, ducking his head, grinning at the next piece of crab he picks up.

Dean eyes his brother and decides he probably doesn't want to know. With a mental shrug, Dean reaches for a shrimp, shoves it in his mouth, chews enough to get it ground up, then opens his mouth and shows Sam. "See food!"

Shrimp goes flying everywhere and Sam can only hold the suffering-martyr look for a few seconds before he's laughing and rolling his eyes. "What are you, ten?"

"Dude," Dean says, once he's swallowed. "See food never gets old. Especially, y'know, when it's _actually_ seafood. Man. Coolest thing ever."

\--

Bellies pleasantly full, slightly buzzed around the edges, the two walk back through the Quarter. Dean's worried about getting bogged down but when he mentions it, Sam says, "No one knew I was coming so they know it's not an official trip."

"Which means what, exactly?" Dean asks, eyeing the people watching them from the galleries. Some wave, call out greetings, but no one says anything more than 'have a nice night.' "They'll just treat you like a tourist?"

"It means I'm not here for long and I'd rather not be disturbed," Sam replies with a shrug. "Part of the unspoken rules. I never used to come here as a retreat but I did stop when I was passing through to Savannah, just to check in on a couple people. After the first few times, we had to set up a system."

Dean doesn't even have to guess what it was like. He knows, remembers all too well what happened the last time he and Sam were here. Two hours to cross the Quarter -- on foot, no less -- which is just ridiculous. Still, it settled his nerves then to know that there were that many people watching out for Sam, welcoming Sam as one of their own, and it makes him feel better now to know that he's included in that, that they are, as far as he knows, completely safe.

\--

They sleep with the windows open and the fan running, curled into one another. Dean dreams of blood and death and trees withering from the roots up. Between the dreams and the way Sam's eyes look in the morning, hollowed out and sunken in as if he didn't get ten minutes of rest last night, Dean would rather go away than cross the river on the Jackson Street ferry.

Despite that, with Sam passing him beignets, Dean drives through Gretna and heads southeast, through Belle Chasse and across the ferry to Scarsdale. Dean takes a right and goes south on 39; all of the other traffic is heading north. He thinks of what Sam said last night, about curses and spirits and hoodoo, and gets goosebumps even though the air inside of the car is stifling.

Sam looks over from the passenger seat, eyes shadowed. "Wait 'til we get south of Carlisle," he says as if he knows exactly what Dean's thinking. The smile he's wearing is grim. "You'll feel it then."

"_Feel it now_," Ogou says. The loa's unsettled, breathing deeper, and Dean thinks that if the loa was right in front of him, Ogou would be carrying a weapon in each hand. "_Don't s'pose I can get you to turn back_?"

"_Not as long as Sam's coming down here_," Dean grumps back, lifting his eyes from the road to check his rearview. "_Someone's gotta keep an eye on him._"

Ogou hums, says, "_He got Ge-Rouge, mebbe. May be that all he needs._"

Dean nearly curses out loud but catches himself in time. "_The fuck are you talking about? Sam needs _us_, not some tripped-out loa that can't even speak. Not to mention he's only got Ge-Rouge because of Marinette. Maybe you forgot, but it's one of her _houngons_ we're coming down here to see. So shut the hell up and stay ready. Got it?_"

The loa takes his time agreeing.


	2. Chapter 2

Carlisle's quiet as Dean drives through; he doesn't see one person outside and shakes off his uneasiness, telling himself that everyone's just inside, out of the sun and taking advantage of air-conditioning. A chill runs down his spine when they leave the little town; there's nothing to separate it from other towns, nothing to differentiate this section of wetland from any other they've seen, and yet. Dean keeps an eye out for the hoodoo workings Sam mentioned but when the fourth chill has his teeth chattering and he still hasn't see anything, he turns to his brother.

"I told you," Sam says without Dean even asking anything. "Plaquemines is different." He pauses, fixes his eyes on some point in the distance, and adds, slowly, "If you want to go back."

Dean cuts him off immediately, not to disagree but to ask, "How come you aren't reacting?" It feels like they're in the middle of winter and caught outside buck-naked; it's happened to Dean before, he remembers the way ice crept up to his toes and danced around them before gingerly caking his breath, his nostrils, cooling sweat and turning it to crystal. He feels that way now, that and, strangely enough, as if there's a fire eating up all of the air around him. He's not hot, it isn't touching him, but his breath is coming in faster and faster and his vision's going blurry due to a distinct lack of oxygen.

"Whoa," Sam mutters, helping Dean pull off to the side of the road. The Impala groans and then rumbles as Sam puts her in park, neither of them protesting at the force of Dean's grip on her steering wheel.

"Whoa?" Dean echoes, fighting to inhale. "_Whoa_? What's that mean? What's happening? Make it fucking stop already." He thinks of Lissa, the look on her face, the way she made Sam promise to keep Dean around. He thinks of Dennis and the wild, mad gleam in Sam's eyes on Dauphine, and says, "Sam, come on. Hurry."

Sam mutters something under his breath and reaches into Dean's back jeans pocket, pulls out the mojo bag from Lissa. He shoves it under Dean's nose and says, "Breathe through this," before getting out of the car.

Dean opens his door, manages to stand up before he wavers, clinging to his car for support. Something inside the mojo bag -- the angelica, maybe, or the salt -- is helping to clear his head but it isn't doing a thing for his lungs. He tries to regulate his breathing as much as possible, watches as Sam takes one step off the road and promptly disappears from sight.

"Sam!" he calls out, pushing off of the Impala and staggering toward the green at the edge of the asphalt, heart stopping for an entirely different reason now. "_Sam!_"

Just as suddenly as he disappeared, Sam is back, a handful of brown muck in one hand. With a murmured, "Sorry about this," Sam dumps the muck on Dean's head, rubs it in a little, and whispers something in Creole as he traces out a symbol on Dean's forehead.

The pressure leaves almost instantly and Dean blinks as mud drips onto his cheek. "Huh," he says. Sam's watching, looks worried, and Dean lifts one hand, tries to wipe the mud off of his cheek with one finger. Just as soon as he does, another drop lands on Dean's face, leaving a track down his cheekbone and past his jaw. Sam winces.

"At least tell me I won't have to leave it on too long," Dean sighs.

"A few minutes," Sam replies, wary. "You're all right, though?"

Dean snorts. His heart is racing but slowing down, returning to normal and leaving him light-headed. "Now I am. I'd still like to know what that was all about, though." The mojo bag, caught in one hand, feels damp against Dean's skin. He looks down at it, sees that the colour of the flannel, once red, has turned a dark, deep brown. When he looks back up again, he blinks, whispers, "Oh, shit."

The hoodoo workings are completely visible now and Dean wonders how he ever missed them before. Sticks are planted along the side of the road at every mile point and Dean can see the strands of power threaded between them, anchored by five-spots painted between the white line and the edge of the road every few hundred feet. Lines of power float in every direction, some heading towards the river, some in the other direction to the bayou, covering everything in webs. The tang of hoodoo, easily dismissed in Lissa's house, in New Orleans, all along the south, makes his teeth ache.

Sam's looking out across the river towards Naomi and, when Dean turns to stare at his brother, is frowning. Before Dean can ask, Sam says, "I told you, the vodouisantes here struck bargains with the hoodoo practitioners. The workings they laid down together, they were cast back before New Orleans was given over to the Americans and have been added to and strengthened ever since. People who aren't connected can't feel anything but those who are so much as minutely sympathetic are affected."

"You stepped off the road," Dean says, slowly. "I couldn't even see you. And you're not affected at all."

Sam's smile is hard. "You weren't supposed to. The workings keep people safe, keep them from coming too far south, keep them on the roads, keep them out of our most sacred territory." He pauses, steps back towards the grass, and adds, quiet, "I've been here before, Dean. I've been a part of this world longer than you have. But don't think I'm not affected by it."

Dean swallows, steps to Sam's shoulder and reaches out to touch his brother. He doesn't, though; his hand hovers over Sam and then drops back down. "What does that mean, Sam."

"I'm the _poto mitan_," Sam says with a shrug. It's not an answer and they both know it. Sam turns, looks at Dean, meets Dean's gaze, and waits to see if Dean's going to press the issue or back off.

For his part, Dean's not sure. He wants to push, wants to know what that means, if he needs to worry about Sam more than he usually does, if there's something he needs to know before it can bite them in the ass. Sam's eyes, though, look wild, tinged with something that Dean's afraid to call loa, and the pulse-point in his throat is fluttering like a trapped butterfly. Dean lets out a long breath, reaches up and pats his own head. "Can I wipe this off now?" he asks, letting his petulance come through his tone full and clear.

Sam drops his eyes, lets out the faintest hint of a smile. "Yeah. But if you bitch too much, I'm gonna dunk you in the swamp, pretty-boy."

Dean huffs, mutters something about which one of them is the _real_ pretty-boy, and tries not to worry when Sam doesn't laugh.

\--

They get back in to the car and drive further south. The hoodoo still bothers Dean but definitely not to the same extent as before. He can feel it like someone watching him and it itches between his shoulderblades. Sam holds his breath when they pass through Davant; Sam's eyes are fixed firmly on his hands, curled on top of his thighs and pressing down until his knuckles have turned white. Dean doesn't say anything but he doesn't see anything, either. Whether Sam's doing something or Ogou is, the only feeling he has crossing through the town is a strange unsettlement, almost like he's forgotten to do something.

Sam exhales once they leave the unofficial boundaries and leans back in his seat, consciously stretches out his fingers, flexing them to get proper blood-flow back. By the time colour's returning to his knuckles they've arrived in Pointe à la Hache and LA-39's got nowhere to go but across the river or fade out into wetlands. Dean parks next to a small gas station and convenience store, signs advertising bait specials and places to buy fresh shrimp and alligator meat next to 'for hire' posters. With the car off, the air settles thick and heavy around the Impala, oozing in through the open windows and vents.

"I really don't like this," Dean murmurs. The stench of vodou and hoodoo, twined together, is rank under the smells of the wetlands, the gas station.

"_Make you feel any better_," Ogou says, just as quietly, the same kind of tone, "_I ain't neither._"

Dean snorts. "_Strangely enough, it really, really doesn't._"

Sam glances at Dean, says, "We'll go in, get this settled, and leave." Dean's not sure if Sam's replying to his body language or to the conversation he and Ogou were having, not until he looks over at his brother and sees hints of Karrefour in the shadow of Sam's gaze. A deep breath, a muttered French phrase, and Sam adds, "But from here, we'll take a swamp boat."

"We can cross the river and head south on the other side," Dean says, in clear disagreement. There's no reason to take a boat and Dean wants the security that good old Detroit steel offers. "The roads go as far as Buras on the other side. Since that's where we're starting, that's what we can do."

A dismissive shake of the head from Sam and Dean feels irritation and anger curl together in the base of his spine. "We'll leave the car here and take a swamp boat down."

Dean opens his mouth to argue but shuts it, clenching his teeth. He doesn't want to go any further south, especially without his car, but he really doesn't want to put the Impala in any jeopardy. "I'm taking guns," Dean warns. "Lots and lots of guns."

"You won't need them," Sam says.

Ogou swirls, says, "_Be careful. He your brother but he your _poto mitan_, too._"

"Doesn't matter," Dean replies to both Sam and Ogou, jaw set and tone mulish. "It's either the car or the weapons. I'm not leaving _both_."

Sam sighs, says, "Dean."

"No," Dean snaps. His shoulders ache, already set with tension. "I'm not going into whatever this is completely helpless."

"Ain't go no choice, son," a man says. Dean, startled, reaches for the shotgun between the driver's seat and the door; he never heard the man approach. "Not when the _frangin_ speaks. Though, like to think one such as him," he goes on to say, nodding at Sam, "ain't gonna bring no one down here ain't able to help hisself. Y'all needing a ride?"

Sam gets out of the car, ignoring Dean's hiss of utter displeasure, and stretches. Dean gets out of the car as well, the familiar creak of the Impala's door closing doing nothing to calm him. The man has his hands in his pocket, cattail stalk between his teeth, and he's still looking at Sam.

Dean raises an eyebrow when Sam sticks his hands in his pockets, rocks forward and then back on his feet once, twice. "We'd much appreciate it," Sam says with a nod, accent turning loose and easy, uncoiling in the heat and stretching out. "We're looking to head to Buras."

"'Course," the man says, as if Sam didn't even have to say where and won't have to explain why, as if he already knows. "They sent word all y'all was coming. You been 'xpected."

"Who sent word?" Dean asks.

Sam's the one that answers, much to Dean's confusion. "The _memeres_."

The man grins, bounces, says, "Ready when y'all are. I got a cooler in the boat but if'n y'all need a piss, do it now. Gators some'n' else t'day. Think they heard you was coming."

Dean gapes, rubs his forehead and says, "You have _got_ to be kidding me." Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't smile, doesn't react at all except with a steady stare, and the man -- who still hasn't introduced himself -- merely grins before nodding and heading for the river.

In that instant, Dean gets that this is yet one more test, one more moment where Sam, despite everything, is convinced that Dean's reached the end of his rope, one more moment where Sam expects Dean to give up on everything, on _him_. Dean's promised, sworn up one side and down the other, that it's them against the world. He took Sam away from San Francisco, tracked Sam to Savannah, he didn't leave when he learned that Ogou was interested in him, he didn't run from Danny, he tangled with Karrefour on the loa's terms, he's done everything he can to prove to Sam that he means what he's said. He thought they were done with this, and yet.

And yet he twice let Sam leave. He once stood and watched as his brother walked out of the door, heading for California, never knowing if he'd see Sam again. He once stood and watched as Sam left Mississippi after sacrificing his only chance for freedom for Dean's sake. Sam still, _still_, thinks Dean's going to do it again. Sam's still _waiting_ for it.

Dean swallows, takes a deep breath, and says, "One gun. And a knife." He pauses, adds, "For the 'gators." He reaches back, scratches his neck, and says, apologetically, "You know I feel naked if I don't have a weapon."

Sam's eyes are dark as he nods and says, "I know." Sam doesn't say anything else, doesn't wait, heads for the river, and Dean stands there for a moment, watching Sam walk away from him yet again.

The boat's engine starts as Sam steps into it. Sam sits, doesn't look at Dean, still in the parking lot, and says something to the man. The engine revs, small waves bouncing out, and Dean gets that they aren't going to wait. He glances at the Impala, growls under his breath, and jogs down to the river, clumping on to the boat, sitting down heavily next to Sam.

"I'm not happy about this," Dean says, half a snarl in his voice.

"I know," Sam replies. "I don't care."

Dean raises an eyebrow, all of the anger gone hearing Sam say that, replaced by a large amount of disbelief and a small amount of worry, a small amount that multiplies at the sight of pain lines crinkling the corners of Sam's eyes, the clenching of his jaw, the way that Danny and Karrefour are pouring out of Sam and following the line of the river southward.

Dean looks away, starts to think very, very seriously.

"_How_," he asks Ogou, "_are these hoodoo things affecting Sam?_"

The loa's quiet for a long time before replying, "Trezò _came down here before with Marinette and the Baron. I might'a ridden him but he got a way of hiding things he don't want no one seeing._"

Dean takes a deep breath. "_Which means?_"

"_Means I ain't got no way o' knowing, _cheval."

\--

There's not much conversation between Pointe à la Hache and Buras. Dean finds out that the man ferrying them down the river at what seems like breakneck speed is named Sebastien and has lived in Plaquemines his entire life. Dean has a beer as they're going around the curve of the river near Nairn, sees more alligators than he ever has before, and thinks he'd be hopelessly lost if they left the river and headed into the real wetlands even with his Marine-trained sense of direction.

Sebastien pulls up to a pier and helps Sam off, says something very low and very fast in French, and gestures across River Road, pointing down the street. Sam replies, points in the other direction, south towards Triumph, and Dean picks out a few words: _memeres_, _maman_, _loup-garou_. He frowns, edges closer to Sam's elbow.

A golf cart turns into the parking lot and Sebastien calls out a greeting. Dean squints, makes out the curves and contours of a woman seconds before she replies. Her voice is warm, gravelly, some strange mix of Janis Joplin and Mama Cass speaking French, and he's so confused about what's going on that it takes him a second to catch up when she switches to a French-peppered English.

"The _memeres_ are waitin', _frangin_. Bring that _mato_ o' yours and come on," she says to Sam before turning to Dean, grinning wide and bright at him. Dean can see, even from this far away, that the smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Well? Ain't no sense in disrespecting the _memeres_ 'round here 'fore you even meet 'em."

Dean glances at Sam, surprised and yet, somehow, not, that this woman called him by the very same name Karrefour gave him. No one else has, apart from Sam. "Sure," he says, giving her a tight smile. "Never a good thing, making the grandmothers wait."

Sam gives him a sharp glance but merely says, "Dean, this is Marguerite, Sebastien's sister. She'll take us to the _memeres_. Sebastien will wait here until we're ready to go on."

"_C’est ne pas le Pérou_," Sebastien says, perching on the stump the boat's line is tied to, arms folded across his chest. "Now, go on, get." He addresses Marguerite in French, something that leaves Dean clueless but has Sam chuckling, shaking his head as he walks toward the golf cart.

When he gets closer to Marguerite, Dean studies her, takes in the scars up and down her left arm, the bangles around her right wrist, her mocking smile as she looks him over. "_Mato_ of the night crossroads," she says, teeth glinting in the sun as she grins wider. "Ain't got no roads down here to cross."

Dean opens his mouth to say that he isn't the one ridden by Karrefour, that if Karrefour's power is somehow lessened by being in Plaquemines it won't affect him, but then he pauses. There's half a warning on her eyes, buried but there, badly hidden; Dean doesn't know what she's warning him about or against, doesn't know why she just doesn't come out and say what she means. "Lots of darkness, though," he finally settles on saying, inclining his head minutely as if to say that he's gotten at least part of her message.

She holds his gaze a moment longer then nods briskly. "Let's skedaddle. _Memeres_ are waitin' on y'all 'fore they eat."

Dean looks at his brother, feels a fraction of his tension dissolve when the corners of Sam's lips tilt upward. "Are these people for real?" he asks, as quietly as he can. "And why are we going to see the _memeres_?"

"The entire Lagarousse family is incredibly loyal," Sam replies. "Though they do have their quirks. As for the _memeres_. They're going to tell us where to find the _houngon_."

Dean raises an eyebrow and leads Sam to the golf cart, sitting on the back and hanging on with one hand, letting Sam slide in next to Marguerite. He'd been under the impression that they'd be hunting the _loup-garou_ themselves, can't think of a time when Sam suggested otherwise. He doesn't think this is a repeat of what happened when they met Adolphe on neutral ground, his complete misunderstanding, thinks this is something else entirely. As the breeze cools the sweat on his forehead, Dean sits back, sighs. He's probably wrong. Again.

\--

Marguerite stops the cart in front of a small house built on stilts. It looks unassuming, has lace curtains fluttering out of open windows, is painted a pale and friendly shade of yellow, but there are large flags hanging around the house, each of them bearing a brightly coloured vévé and flapping in the breeze. _Drapo_, Dean thinks, thankful for Mathieu's _konesan_. Large hanging baskets of a flower with red-orange petals are everywhere as well, and there are shallow terracotta dishes filled with water lilies.

"Earth, air, fire, and water," Sam murmurs, just loud enough for Dean to make out. Marguerite, already stepping up on to the porch and knocking on the door, is too far away to hear. "Everything in balance, with the proper respect to the loa."

Dean gets chills, hearing Sam's tone; his brother sounds like a stranger, like a child in awe at his first white Christmas. He looks at Sam, bites his lip and tastes blood a second later.

Sam walks up the stairs, past the door that Marguerite's opened, and into the house. Dean follows one step behind, passing Marguerite and ignoring the hawkish smile she gives him.

Inside, the house is wide-open, airy and light with white walls and light-coloured furniture, vibrant paintings and a creaking fan keeping time in the corner. They're in a large sitting room, as are seven women scattered over two couches and three armchairs, each of them staring at Sam. Dean presses himself closer to his brother, all of his hackles raised. As innocent as these women look, as harmless as the house appears to be, something's wrong. Power floats in the air like something tangible and yet it isn't completely clear to Dean where it's coming from.

"_Memeres_," Sam says, inclining his head. Dean's heart skips a beat. Sam's the _poto mitan_, he shouldn't be bowing his head to anyone at all. Dean looks at the women, can see that Sam hasn't lifted his eyes yet, his neck still bowed, is waiting for something.

He's about to say something when one of the women moves, the one in the middle. "_Poto mitan_," she says, tone dry. "It's been some time since we last seen you. And yet you come directly at our summons. You do us honour, _poto mitan_." She pauses, glances at the other women, and finally says, "You may approach."

Sam steps forward. Dean moves to do to the same but finds himself caught, unable to go anywhere. He looks down, doesn't see anything.

"_Helps if you look closer,_" Ogou murmurs and then does something to Dean's vision. Dean barely bites back a growl when he sees a glowing line of power trapping him in a circle. "_Didn't know it was there 'til my _trezò_ be walking over it. See why we hate coming down these parts?_"

"_Did he know it was there?_" Dean asks, pressing against the barrier as hard as he can.

The loa makes a noise, says, "_He been here before. Can't see as how he wouldn't._"

Sam kneels in front of the woman who spoke. She stretches out her hands and Sam reaches to take them, presses a kiss to her knuckles. The _memere_ rests one hand on Sam's head, thumb swiping Sam's forehead, as she glances up at Dean. "You brought one here, _poto mitan_. To us or for you?"

Still on one knee, Sam looks up at the woman. Dean can't see his brother's face but curls of Sam's hair float outwards, carried on the breeze from the open windows. He watches, almost hypnotised, and barely hears his brother say, "Both, _memere_. I've acknowledged him as the Petro _konfians kay_ of New Orleans and Karrefour's named him _mato_. He has the right to be here at my side for the purpose of our visit."

Gently, the woman asks, "And your wish, _poto mitan_?"

"That you would welcome him here, in your territory," Sam replies after taking a deep breath. "Or, if not a welcome, then a neutrality of your workings against him."

The six other women exchange glances, low murmurs in a language that Dean can't hear enough to decipher. They're speaking too quietly but he doesn't think it's French and it definitely isn't Creole. He grits his teeth, tries to push off the feeling of weightlessness that's creeping up on him. He doesn't like this, doesn't like not being able to get to Sam, doesn't like being the object of a spell he can't get out of when his brother's clearly lost his mind.

"_Back up a little,_" Ogou tells him, prodding at Dean. "_More you press y'self against that line, more it's gonna hurt._"

Dean steps back from the barrier, just a fraction, and feels the spell lessen. The woman in the middle gives him a sharp, narrow-eyed look.

"You've always respected us," she says, before looking back down at Sam. "You've always held us in high esteem. You strengthened our workings when we asked and you stayed away when we asked. Karrefour told you to come see us, 'Basti told you we had the answer; you obeyed the loa and trusted the man. We'll give you a choice, _poto mitan_: we'll tell you where to find your _djab_ _loup-garou_ or we'll grant you your wish."

Dean almost chokes, he inhales so quickly. He opens his mouth to say something but Ogou crowds his mind, tells him to be quiet at the exact same moment that every single one of the _memeres_ looks at him. Dean grimaces, swears at his rider.

"_This be my _trezò_'s decision_," the loa says. "_Let him make it._"

A minute passes, then two. Finally, Sam says, "Where's my _loup-garou_?"

Dean doesn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Sam asking, that means they won't have to track the damned thing down, can go and get it, take care of it, and get the hell out of Plaquemines. He hasn't been looking forward to a hunt, not in the wetlands; there won't be much of one now.

On the other hand, Sam just picked finding one of Marinette's _houngons_ over making Dean feel better about this parish.

Ogou turns, says, "_It ain't like that, _ cheval." The loa sounds disapproving and Dean doesn't understand why.

"_He picked one of hers,_" he argues back. "_I'll never be safe down here, all because Marinette's more important. He had the chance, the choice, and he picked her. And what'd they say, that he helped them build the, what, the wards? And he never took them down for me. It's like he's not doing anything except letting them keep me out._"

"_No one safe down here,_" Ogou snorts. "_'Sides, y'ain't never gonna feel better, even _if_ they grant you neutrality. And there ain't no way for him to take down any workings. Can't take back blood, _cheval_. Can't take nothing back a man give a _memere_ of his own free will. He want you to be safe, he never let you south of New Orleans._" The loa moves, enough to offer some comfort to Dean, and adds, "_He trust you, letting you in here. Trust you to survive and survive well. He ain't never trusted one of my wife's sister's that way._"

That surprises Dean, takes him completely off-guard. Even so, he hears when the _memere_ says, "Your _loup-garou_ saved a child from drowning in Buras five months ago. He saved another from the alligators up 'round Home Place and Bay Lamaux after that. You understand what I'm saying, _poto mitan_?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam says, instantly. Dean doesn't.

The woman nods. "You'll find your _loup-garou_ between Grand Bayou and Bay Sanbois. 'Basti knows where you need to look."

Sam finally stands up, takes one step backwards, closer to Dean. He nods, looks at each woman in turn, and says, "Thank you." It's simple, direct, and yet the women all smile at him. Dean's pretty sure he'd get creeped out if they looked at him like that.

The instant Sam steps back over that line, Dean's got one hand clasped around Sam's wrist and a glare painted all over his face. "What. The hell," he hisses between his teeth. One of the women titters and Dean flushes but doesn't look away. "_Sam_."

"Go on, _poto mitan_," the _memere_-in-charge says. "You're wasting daylight."

Sam holds Dean's gaze, lets Dean pull him outside, and stands there, shoulders tense, as Dean works up to a good rant. That silence, that ready expectation, makes Dean pause long enough for Marguerite to call out, "Back to the river, _frangin_? Tide'll be making an appearance soon."

"Finding the _loup-garou_," Sam murmurs, "is more important right now than negotiating for an exception to the protections around here. If we had something to bargain with, I would have, but we don't."

Dean feels stung and can only trail after Sam. He sits back down on the back of the golf cart, watches the house fade as Marguerite drives them back to the river.

\--

Sebastien gets them to Bay Sanbois in an hour and a half. Dean's been sitting next to Sam but he hasn't said one word to his brother. In Dean's defense, Sam hasn't said anything either, not to him and not in English. It's an uncomfortable ride to begin with, now made worse with the silence; when they cut across the bays and the bayous, Dean gets flash-sensations of vodou and hoodoo and wants to ask Sam so many questions but doesn't.

Sam's been yelling over the noise to Sebastien, pointing at things in French. Sebastien's laughed, once or twice, seems in high spirits. Sam hasn't smiled once. Dean's not sure how long this is going to last, whether they'll fight it out before they get to the _loup-garou_ or will have to wait until they'll leave the parish. He hates it already.

"Poto mitan_ ain't asking for an apology,_" Ogou points out.

Dean grinds his teeth. "_I never said I was going to give him one._"

The loa hums, coils loose and easy, and says, "_S'easier to deal with him when he ain't around his people, ain't it._" Dean blinks, surprised, almost loses his balance as Sebastien takes a curve too fast. "_When he being the _poto mitan_, you have trouble. Why?_"

Ogou has a point. Dean doesn't have any problem with Sam when it's just the two of them. He can ask as many questions as he wants and Sam usually answers them; granted, sometimes Sam's quicker to answer questions about the loa or about the history and practice of vodou than he is questions about the other practitioners. When Sam's around other vodouisantes, though, when Sam doesn't give Dean anything to go on and doesn't explain anything, that's when Dean has issues. He gets frustrated with not knowing what's happening and not having a quick way to find out.

"_You got the _konesan_ of one of the strongest Petro _konfians kay_ any of us loa seen this century,_" Ogou says. "_He don't know something, not many would. It ain't not having answers, _cheval_. It's a'cause you ain't got his attention. It's a'cause you think he hiding secrets. _Poto mitan_ has a lot of secrets. He gotta make a lot of hard choices. You gotta learn to deal._"

Dean thinks about that. Sure, he's man enough to admit he feels threatened sometimes. There's so much he doesn't know about Sam's years away from him, what happened, who with, where and why; Sam's complicated history with Marinette is one thing, but Dean doesn't know if there are other people or loa with a grudge against his brother. There could be, without him knowing a thing about it, and that scares him.

Ogou sighs, says, "_Come down to trust at the end, _cheval_. He got your name on him, skin to bone. He made it clear who he got keeping watch for him. Sometimes I think you got the same level. Sometimes, times like these, I wonder._"

"_You can't mean that,_" Dean says, in complete disbelief and not a little amount of horror. "_You know I._"

The loa cuts him off. "_Need, want, love. None of them's the same as trust. Now hush up and focus; you almost there._"

Dean looks around, can't see much other than what they've been seeing all day: cypress and gum trees, 'gators, all kinds of plants and vines and greenery. Sebastien's slowing down, though, and Sam's got his eyes fixed on a speck of what looks like land just up ahead.

"That'll take our weight?" Dean asks, glancing at his brother. "As well as the _houngon's_?"

Sam's eyes hold what looks like surprise and relief in the split-second that Sam's gaze flickers to Dean. "One of Simbe's horses shored it up," Sam says. When they get closer, the swamp boat slowing down to a crawl, Sam points at a tree. Dean squints and sees a vévé carved into the trunk. "It'll be good enough."

Sebastien guides the boat right next to a fallen tree and reaches out, ties a rope around a branch conveniently sticking up. "I'll be 'xpecting three o' you back," he says. He's grinning but his eyes are strangely serious. "Loa guide you."

Dean stands up first, steps over Sam and out of the boat, planting his feet on the tree. He bounces just a little, tests the weight and hold; only then does he offer out a hand for Sam to take. Sam looks confused but he smiles as he lets Dean help him out of the boat and on to the little island.

Sam takes a deep breath, jumps off of the tree onto what looks like dirt but might be floating mud. He doesn't sink, so Dean guesses it must be safe enough. He steps off gingerly, waiting for a squelch. The one he gets is wet and thick.

"You know where to find this guy?" Dean asks, deciding it would be better if he didn't look down. He's not sure if this is a proper island or something put together with mojo bags and spells but he knows he's not keen on finding out the answer.

"Won't be too hard," Sam replies. "It's not that big. Plus," he adds, gesturing at the very same ground Dean's just decided not to look at. With a sigh, Dean does, rolling his eyes when he sees the paw prints. He nods and moves when Sam moves.

\--

Kudzu hangs from trees, gets in Dean's face even when he's already holding back several strands. Irritated, he wipes his face and doesn't even bother moving the next few, walking through them with a grimace.

"I'd keep moving them if I was you," Sam says, looking over his shoulder.

Dean asks why and, right away, freezes in his tracks. This time, coiled in amongst the kudzu, there's a snake. Sam doesn't seem concerned so Dean lets out a breath and carefully steps to one side, going around the snake. He gives Sam a wry smile and stops again when a growl comes from his left, the other side of Sam. Dean turns slowly and locks eyes with a _loup-garou_.

He saw his first werewolf when he was eleven, mostly by accident. He remembers it well, has always wanted to find one now that he's older and can actually hunt one instead of sitting in the Impala with Sam, watching their father run one to ground. That werewolf, all werewolves, still look mostly human; their teeth change, and their hands, not to mention the super strength and speed, but they walked upright and could've easily been mistaken in the dark for a civilian from behind.

This, though, this _loup-garou_, there's no question it's a beast and not a human. Dean reaches for his gun before he remembers that he doesn't have it and calls up Ogou instead, letting the warrior loa see their potential enemy and ready their body to meet it. The _loup-garou_ resembles a timber wolf but is even larger, shoulders about four feet from the ground, and isn't moving. Any natural wolf would have by now, especially in combination with the body language this _loup-garou_ is using: standing tall, teeth bared, ears forward.

Bright green eyes are pinned on Sam and the _loup-garou_ growls when Sam tilts his head and stares at it, muscles bunching beneath its fur.

"Fine," Sam mutters. "You wanna do this the hard way, we'll do it the hard way."

Before Dean can ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, Sam lifts his arms. The _loup-garou_ tenses and steps backwards, growl turning to a high whine, muzzle dropping slightly.

Sam shakes his head. "Too late," he says. "You had plenty of time."

Something in the air changes. The _loup-garou_ drops to its knees, paws pressing over its nose, and Dean smells something a moment later, smoke and fire. Karrefour leaks out of Sam, his vévé tattooed onto Sam's arm cracking around the edges and bleeding, drops falling to the ground. The air burns, hot and acrid, and Dean watches, fascinated, as the _loup-garou_'s whine turns into a high-pitched whimper, head shaking back and forth. The _loup-garou_ creeps backwards, tail dragging in the dirt, and Karrefour smiles, eyes dark.

"Here, puppy," the loa says. The _loup-garou_ drops its belly to the ground, tilts its head to expose the neck, and doesn't otherwise move. "_Here_," Karrefour snarls.

A wave of power rushes outwards and the _loup-garou_ screams. Fur starts moving and bones lengthen, shorten, the sound of it popping like corn. The _loup-garou_ pants as fur runs together and then smooths, sinking inwards to reveal tanned skin. Paws curl in, then stretch apart, splitting along the pad to form fingers with nails instead of claws. In the matter of a few painful moments, the _loup-garou_ is gone and a man is sitting there in its place, naked and glaring at Sam.

The man, the _houngon_, pushes himself up to his hands and knees, as if testing his muscles. Once he's sure they're going to hold, he stands; Dean watches as the _houngon_ wavers but keeps to his feet.

He's sure that the _houngon_'s too out of it to argue thanks to that forced transition but the man takes one wobbly step forward and snarls, "You let them bind her. _You_, of all people, gave yourself to them so that they could bind her. _How_? How could you do it?"

"Because she was a danger to herself and to all of us," Sam replies, heated, Karrefour shoved back down but still present. "You know that if I had any other choice, I would've taken it. She forced us."

"And _Dantor_," the man goes on, as if he didn't hear a word Sam said. "Her own damned sister."

Dean swallows, steps back, because the sudden and strong smell of perfume is making him dizzy. He reaches out one hand but Sam swats it away; he feels an electric shock when Sam's skin hits his own and Ogou stirs out of his watchful trance. It's Danny, then, and she's ticked off enough that Ogou feels its safe to slip out of his hunting mindset, into one highly amused, anticipatory.

"Don't you be taking that tone with me," she says, somewhere between a growl and a purr. "No, _houngon_; if you wanna turn _loup-garou_ in the absence of my sister, we'll let you be. But just remember who you talking to and about when you argue with my _chwal_." The man's lips flatten together, turning white, as Danny croons, "_Set kout kouto, set kout pwenyad; prete m dedin a, pou m vomi san mwen. San mwen ape koule. Jou ma' koule, map vomi san mwen bay yo. Konprann_?"

Dean's charm is doing enough to translate the Creole but he can't make heads or tails of what it actually _means_. She said 'seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the dagger; lend me the basin, so I can vomit my blood. My blood is pouring down. The day I am run down I will vomit my blood and give it to them,' and then asked if the _houngon_ understood. Dean doesn't, not at all, but the _houngon_ nods even as he breathes out through his nose, like a bull getting ready to attack. Dean wonders if that's a Marinette-horse thing or if this _houngon_'s just too pissed off to think.

"_Means she ain't to be messed with_," Ogou says, once Dean's poked at the loa to explain Danny's half-song. "_Means people may be killing her, but she still strong, she still got life in her that ain't coming out_."

Defiance, then, and a warning. That, Dean can understand.

"_More than that,_" Ogou adds. "_Danny handing anyone blood, never a good thing. Means whoever be takin' that basin from 'er, they in for a world of hurt_."

The air coming off of the _houngon_ tightens, a tang of challenge, and Dean can't believe the guy's still fighting. Sam's the _poto mitan_ and can be one scary son of a bitch; this guy's either stupid or suicidal. Dean's halfway to telling Sam that obviously Danny's not the right loa to deal with this and he'd be better off drawing up Karrefour, but then Sam gets that look in his eyes from before, from when they stepped into the house on Dauphine.

Dean swallows, can't believe he's playing peacemaker even as he's stepping forward, saying, "Guys, come on, let's talk about this like civilised," he pauses, mentally shrugs, and finishes with, "horses."

The _houngon_ snarls and surges forward. He reaches out to knock Dean away but a wall of power bursts free from Sam and rips through Dean into the _houngon_. For the instant the power fills Dean, passing through, all he can do is gasp for breath. Red clouds his vision and his fingers curl into claws. He wants to curl in a corner and weep, rock back and forth, but the more overwhelming feeling is one of absolute homicidal rage. He wants to kill, wants to tear flesh with his teeth, wants to drink down blood and scream curses to the sky, wants to destroy everything within his reach.

The feeling passes and the power hits the _houngon_; it takes half a second but Dean sways, drops to his knees feeling drained and empty.

"_Now y'see why it ain't safe to get 'tween Ge-Rouge and whoever she looking at,_" Ogou says. He almost sounds apologetic as he curls through Dean, rising up to take some of the sting of this Erzulie away. "_And you remember, Ge-Rouge and Danny, they sisters. One might have more sex, the other more anger, but at the core, they the same._"

Dean looks up at Sam, eyes wide. Danny creeps in, distracting with her hips, her eyes, her crude amusement, Karrefour watches, but this, this Ge-Rouge, she's nothing but a ball of fury.

The _houngon_'s mouth is open in a silent scream; he's dropped to his hands and feet, is clawing at the ground as if he has claws again. Sam's standing there, watching, and Dean would almost swear his brother's eyes have a red tinge to them, a visible manifestation of Ge-Rouge. He smells blood, glances over the tattoos; they haven't cracked. He keeps looking, finally sees blood dripping from Sam's clenched hands.

"_Help him_," he tells Ogou. "_You. Call up Danny or snipe at Karrefour, just do something, please._"

Ogou says there isn't much he can do but then Dean sneezes, gets the smell of burning metal caught in his throat and coughs to try and clear it out. It doesn't work, only grows and grows until Dean's eyes are watering.

The _houngon_ throws his head back and screams, shuddering as Ge-Rouge's touch fades away, leaving him panting. Sam's eyes are clear and full of pain. Dean hates to think what his brother's putting himself through right now.

"You don't understand," the _houngon_ finally says, sitting on his heels, shoulders slumping, all of the anger disappearing into something that looks, to Dean, like desperation that's much too resigned for Ge-Rouge to touch. He's not looking up, seems too scared, too tired, to lift his eyes. "She's _gone_. She just. You _ripped_ her away." He stops, looks away, and doesn't face Sam when he adds, "I didn't have the chance to say goodbye."

Dean looks at his brother. Sam's jaw's tight but not angry. The air coming off of Sam has changed, less of Danny and Ge-Rouge, more of the Sam that Dean fears, small and closed-off, desperate, turning numb and cold. One day, talking about Marinette, thinking about the bitch loa, won't have this effect on Sam; Dean knows it just as fervently as he prays for it to be soon.

It becomes clear that Sam isn't going to repute the _houngon_ and neither is he going to say anything else in explanation or defense. Sam's just going to take whatever guilt this guy lays at his feet and carry it around like he doesn't have enough of his own. Dean's not going to stand for that.

"_Dude_," he tells Ogou, "_I said help, not guilt-trip._"

"_Only one to help was Ti-Jean_," the loa snarks back. "_You wanna complain, you take it up with the dwarf._"

Dean scoffs, pushes himself up, wipes off his knees. "So you couldn't say goodbye," Dean says, moving to stand next to his brother, bumping elbows with Sam. Sam flinches, just enough for Dean to feel, but doesn't say anything. "Whatever. Dude, you knew it was coming. She'd been all over the place, hijacking horses, invading territory. Did you think the _poto mitan_ was just gonna let her get away with that?"

The _houngon_ looks, wide-eyed, between Sam and Dean, finally settles his eyes on Dean. "He loves her," the _houngon_ murmurs. "How could he do that to someone he loves?"

"You were counting on his _affection_?" Dean asks, stuck somewhere on the axis from shocked to disgusted. "He's the _poto mitan_. You thought he would just, what, slap her on the wrist and turn the other cheek? Come _on_. Sam understands just fine what it felt like to lose her; you know he loved her, you think it was _easy_ for him to bind her?" Ogou murmurs to him and Dean adds, spitefully, "You know what? If you want to blame anyone, blame yourself. You weren't keeping her in line well enough."

"Keep a loa in line?" the _houngon_ echoes, eyes narrowing. "We can't keep a loa in line. We don't. That's not what we're here for. They ride us, we don't ride them."

Sam reacts to that, lets out a long hiss of breath. "We have rights," he says, too soft to be taken as instruction. Still, the _houngon_ tilts his head, listening. "Yes, they ride us, and yes, we give ourselves to them freely and willingly. But from time to time, from loa to loa, we're responsible for balancing them out, for reminding them that they're in human bodies and must face human repercussions for their actions."

The _houngon_ thinks that over for a moment before asking, "For example?"

Dean would snap, but the guy sounds pretty damned honest about the question.

"Dean's a _cheval_ for Ogou," Sam says, reaching back, wrapping an arm around Dean's waist, pulling him closer, their bodies flush, the only thing between skin their clothes and the humidity of the wetlands. Dean can feel something start to soak into his shirt, guesses its blood but doesn't care. "But that doesn't mean that if Ogou's riding him and decides to start World War Three that he has to let it happen. In fact, he has a responsibility to Ogou, to the other Petro, and to all of the vodouisantes, to make sure it doesn't, either by talking Ogou out of it or by rejecting Ogou's presence and bringing it to my attention."

There's silence for a few minutes, maybe five, what feels like three thousand. Dean leans into Sam's hold, bites back a grin when Sam's fingers tighten on Dean's hip but can't resist the urge to wrap his own arm around Sam's waist, trail the line of Sam's arm until he's rubbing his fingers over the crescent-shaped gouges in Sam's palm.

The _houngon_ nods. "I should have done something," he admits. "But you knew. You knew her and for so long you didn't take action."

Dean bristles at the accusation but this time Sam nods, says, "I know. And for that I owe every vodouisante and loa an apology. I won't offer excuses."

"But you loved her," the _houngon_ whispers. "You still do. If you allow us our weaknesses, shouldn't we allow you yours?"

"No," Sam says, instantly. "No. Because I'm the _poto mitan_. You've heard what happened to Dennis?" The _houngon_ nods, pale. "The only thing that comes from my weakness is death. We lost a strong Rada horse and the legacy of an entire family that day, not to mention Papa Midnight's _konesan_. That's not the kind of _poto mitan_ I want to be. That's not the legacy I want to leave behind."

The _houngon_ looks at Sam. "I heard them say you bound the _chevaux_ in Chicago and the ones in New Orleans. I heard them say you're reconsidering the place of _sosyetes_. They say you're out of control." The _houngon_ stands and says, "I'll never be able to forgive you for tearing her away. But you'll never forgive yourself, either."

Sam nods, just once, sharply. "She binds us with the cruelest of bridles," he murmurs. Still, the words echo off the trees and hang in the air. Dean remembers Adolphe saying that, caught in St. Louis One on the edge of midnight; Dean understands better now.

"_Poto mitan_," the _houngon_ murmurs, coming closer. Dean tenses but the man doesn't do anything except hold out his hands. Sam covers the _houngon_'s hands with his own, lets the man kiss his knuckles, and leans forward to kiss the man's forehead. "What do I do now?" the _houngon_ asks, close to tears. "She's gone. She's _gone_."

Sam exhales, pulls the _houngon_ into a hug. "Now we try to keep living," he says. "Dean and I will go north and you."

He stops there, trails off, and the _houngon_ whispers, "Please. Tell me what to do."

"Go south, to the _memeres_," Sam finally says. He squeezes once more, then lets go. The _houngon_ steps back, wiping his eyes and nodding.

Sam turns, looks at Dean, and tilts his head toward the boat, toward Sebastien. Dean nods and the three of them leave.

\--

Sebastien drives the boat up to Pointe à la Hache and drops the two Winchesters off. He waves, yells out something in French and leaves, heading back down the river towards Buras and the _memeres_ with the _houngon_ twisted uncomfortably in the seat behind Sebastien. The _houngon_ watches them until they're out of sight.

Dean takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Right. So. North?" He looks across the Impala at his brother, frowns when he sees Sam staring up LA-39, arms folded across his chest like he's cold. "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah. North is good." Sam doesn't move though, just watches the road, eyes fixed above the bayou.

Dean gets goosebumps, reaches into the car and picks up his shotgun before going around the front-end, standing next to Sam. "What is it?"

Sam shakes his head, once, and says, "You'd be better off not seeing."

That doesn't make much sense to Dean and he says so, before elbowing Sam in the side and adding, "I might not be from Missouri but I want to see. Show me."

A curious breeze springs up, smells like sweet water, and Dean blinks as his eyes burn. He rubs at them with the back of one hand, waiting for the tears to clear. When they do, he swears under his breath. In and amongst the trees, the few buildings, and the road, Dean sees ghosts. There must be hundreds of them and they're all just, just _standing_ there.

"Shit," he says, again. "Is that." He stops, can't put into words what he's trying to ask.

"Davant," Sam murmurs. "Unofficial boundary's only a minute away. They'll be worse when we drive through."

Dean shakes his head, wraps an arm around his brother and feels Sam shivering. "Before, that's what had you," he starts to say, stops. "Screw that. We'll take the ferry across the river and head up on that side. No fucking way."

He pushes Sam into the car, then gets in behind the wheel. The Impala rumbles to life with a growl that has Dean relaxing; he's back with his car, he has a trunk full of weapons, and Sam's strapped in. They're going north, leaving this fucking parish, and they'll be out of Louisiana just as soon as Dean can make it happen. For all that a part of him knows New Orleans, the rest of the state still creeps him out.

He checks the gas gauge, decides they can make it at least to Belle Chasse on this tank, and puts the Impala in gear. With one hand on Sam's thigh, the other on the steering wheel, Dean drives towards the ferry crossing and doesn't look back.


End file.
